Have you noticed
how fast flowing time leaves the dead,
abandons the deceased ancient,
on par with the dinosaurs,
yes, with cosmic clouds
and exploding super novae,
simultaneous with the ”Let there be light”?

Such is the dead

The living is particular

The dead is nothing in particular

The cut is immediate;
there is no transfer,
no ”transmigration of souls”,
no time to think;
just an is
and a not

The cat and I breath
in time
as the rain beats down on the roof,
moving thoughts
in the seclusion of life;
a particular state
in the eternal nothing in particular

The cat breaths silently
with eyes closed
The rain marches its noisy troops
right up to my balcony door,
drowning the silent felician breath
in a profuse re-enactment
of Ligeti's Poème symphonique
pour 100 metronomes

I take refuge
in the + 37° C of a body,
in the + 25° C of a quilt's embrace,
in the + 19° C of a house,
in the + 13° C of the rain

My sentiments are keepsakes
in daily caskets
in back of life

My days are samurais
closing in, fanning out

My years are observatories
and sanatoriums

Life is always on the verge;
my body a songline 'cross the plains

My extremities are burning fire arms
signaling from mountain tops;
non-local connections
flaring through galaxies

Our brains are spots in space;
our bodies movable feasts

Death is an incredibly fine cut
through the fabric of the particular,
out of the limitless nothingness
of nothing in particular

I'll give you nothing in particular
and no time to think